


Sperantia (But Her Friends Call Her Pansy)

by VanLudwig



Series: The House of the Serpent [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/F, Gen, Magical Masturbation, Masturbation, Narcissism, POV Pansy Parkinson, light pansy/ginny, pansy and draco friendship, pansy-centric, these two will be the death of me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 10:29:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12746505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanLudwig/pseuds/VanLudwig
Summary: Pansy thought of the exhibitionism as an accessory, really. Her body was hers, her pleasure was hers, she had never needed more than her own attention to feel fulfilled. But when the others watched her, oh, it was the best kind of magic. The result of narcissism unchecked, Draco had lamented of her, though Pansy felt that he had little room to make the criticism.





	Sperantia (But Her Friends Call Her Pansy)

**Author's Note:**

> I really take issue when characters are created for a story with no reasoning other than the author needed a villain, a bully, or someone for the heroes to make fun of. This feeling multiplies when its a female character with no other purpose in life other than to exist in proximity to a man. As to why this female character would remain flat and one-dimensional in a series with this many characters, I can understand and sympathize. But to come right out and say that you dislike a character because of the single dimension that she was given by you the author, despised for the very design by which she was created? A waste. 
> 
> Such is the case of my girl Sperantia "Pansy" Constance Parkinson (because purebloods are notoriously hilarious when they name their children, so why should she be the normal one?)

The first time someone walked in on Pansy Parkinson masturbating, she let him watch. 

It was Theodore Nott, coming into the girl’s dormitory to fetch Daphne Greengrass’s potions book for her. Pansy had left the curtains of her bed open, and when Nott realized what she was doing, he’d frozen in place, transfixed by her naked form on the bed. She’d stared right back at him only for the time it took to decide that his presence held no bearing over her pleasure. It was his choice whether he stayed or not. She didn’t look back at him again, not even when she’d finished, and it was only after she’d moaned and whimpered her way through the truly toe-curling orgasm that she heard him leave. 

After that, she’d never pleasured herself in peace again. Each time she would begin, Nott would show up, silent as a ghost, and watch her until completion. Pansy really didn’t care one way or the other. She’d never been a shy girl before, and she wasn’t about to start now. She had her fantasies, and who was she to begrudge Nott of his? In a way, it was fun for her. Though she wasn’t attracted to Theodore Nott in the least, she was deeply aroused by his attention to her, the way he watched her in silent reverence, like a worshipper in the presence of his god.

When Nott began to bring the others, the comparison became all the more appropriate, and Pansy decided she liked being watched. First it was Goyle, then Crabbe, then Pritchard and Baddock and even Zabini, of all people. Over the course of a few days, every boy in her year was making time in their schedules to watch her get off. Well, every boy except Draco, but that almost went without saying. (They were like siblings, and he was hopelessly gay, anyway.) She would make a little show out of it, started decorating her room with candles and spraying the curtains of her bed with rosewater. Pansy would press her wand to her clit and charm it to vibrate, laying luxuriously against her silken sheets, knees bent and head thrown back, hair spilling dark and lovely curls over her pillows. She knew she was pretty, knew she had a lovely voice. Her attraction to herself was the only sexuality she had ever known. It was nice that the boys appreciated her, too.

And appreciate her they did. They often left gifts in her room for her, and Pansy would unwrap them with glee when she was alone. The only thing she loved in equal measure to herself was clothing (mostly because of how she looked in clothing). A new outfit was an aphrodisiac. She came achingly hard and fast the first time she’d worn the emerald silk robe from Goyle. The material felt like liquid against her skin, and she was enchanted with what the dark tones did for her complexion. Seeing the oh-so-Slytherin green surrounding the marble white of her lovely skin was enough to get her aroused without her even having so much as to lay a finger on herself. 

She wasn’t entirely sure what the other girls thought of her behavior, but they did not seem to treat her differently, so she supposed they didn’t care much. She wasn’t terribly close to any of them to begin with, though she supposed they were her friends. Greengrass often accompanied her to the shops on weekends when Draco couldn’t be persuaded to go. (The insufferable twink was often excusing himself from Hogsmeade visits and the like to stalk Potter.) And Bulstrode largely preferred the company of Hufflepuffs but would sometimes play cards with her in the evenings. The younger girls in Slytherin house weren’t as outwardly accepting of Pansy’s little shows, but their opinions counted for nothing, anyway. 

Exactly once, Blaise Zabini tried to convince her to stop, largely because his mother was looking to him to forge a Zabini-Parkinson alliance. He didn’t seem too thrilled at the prospect of his future wife being ogled by the likes of Crabbe and Goyle any longer, and he told her so, quite sharply. Pansy had said nothing. She just laughed and laughed until Zabini gave up and walked out. It was just so hilarious that any man, even Zabini whom she was quite fond of, thought he mattered enough to presume to alter her behavior simply because he wished to.

Pansy thought of the exhibitionism as an accessory, really. Her body was hers, her pleasure was hers, she had never needed more than her own attention to feel fulfilled. But she liked it, she had to admit. The attractiveness and stature of the men observing her did not matter at all, only that they were watching and adoring her. Honestly, if someone like Gregory Goyle ever attempted to touch so much as a single hair on her head, she would hex him three ways from Sunday. But when he and the others watched her, oh, it was the best kind of magic. 

And so it was that Pansy Parkinson found herself, once again, in her bedroom on a lazy Thursday afternoon with her curtains thrown open and her wand buzzing with excitement from the charm. She licks it from handle to tantalizing tip before pressing it ever-so-lightly against the sensitive flesh of her clit, the ghost of a touch sending shivers running down her spine. She moans lustily at the sensation, drawing tiny little circles around the sensitive flesh. The air positively crackles with sex and her magic. Distantly, she hears the door creak open, and she spreads her legs wider without really thinking about it, an invitation to herself just as much as to the others.

Draco had asked her once if she considered herself straight. She’d thought about it for a good long minute before shaking her head. Gay, then? Bisexual? Pansy didn’t have a label to ascribe her sexuality. It disappointed Draco, oddly enough, but she’d never particularly minded. Pansy simply had never experienced interest in another person the way she was interested in herself, and the pleasure she received from the Slytherin boys had nothing to do with their gender, only their attention to her. The result of narcissism unchecked, Draco had lamented, though Pansy felt that he had little room to make the criticism.

A gentle shift of the charm has her wand vibrating faster, all eleven inches of ebony and unicorn hair responding to her will with eagerness. Her breath catches in her throat, and she squeaks out a few pleasant gasps as she feels the pressure mounting within her. She hears the shifting of fabric near her bed, and she looks over at her audience, Nott and Crabbe. Their faces are flushed and their eyes are hungry. Pansy feels satisfaction and pride twisting in her gut, her pelvic muscles clenching at the sight of the boys watching her, lusting for her. She eases off slightly, maneuvering the tip of her wand lower to draw off her orgasm for just a few more aching moments. She likes to prolong things, likes to keep those eyes on her for as long as she can. She loves it, lives for it, even, being adored like an untouchable goddess, a benevolent queen, the curve of her breasts and hips a monument to the sensuality of womanhood.

Pansy turns her head to the other side, away from the door, and stares through hazy eyes at the candles burning low on her nightstand. She draws in a long breath and then moves the tip of her wand back upwards, pressing it into herself with intoxicating intent. Her cry of absolute ecstasy rings through the room as her pleasure spirals up over her limit and spills over in a wave of heady euphoria. Oaths tumble from her thick, red lips and strike the silence of the room like impossible promises, like desperate prayers, like she’s never wanted anything more in her life than this one perfect moment. Her legs freeze in her hip sockets, entire body going rigid as her orgasm finally reaches its peak and shatters her body, her mind banished to a persistent humming of satisfaction. She floats down from the high like a feather cut loose from a levitation spell, drifting listlessly back to earth with sigh after contented sigh. 

That had been a particularly good one. Her skin tingles with magical residue and her limbs feel warm and syrupy. Pansy turns her head just in time to see Crabbe’s robes disappear through the door. Nott is still there, eyes fixed firmly on the heaving of her chest, the slight shaking of her thighs. He collects himself, nods his head in a bow, and leaves. 

Pansy feels alive. She raises her shoulder to her lips in a shrug and kisses the smooth flesh there. 

She lays in bed for a few more indulgent moments before rising, dressing in her school uniform, and grabbing her bag. She meets Greengrass and Zabini in the common room to walk to Transfiguration.

X

Pansy walks down the winding path to the Quidditch pitch on a cold and dreary day, Charms books in her hand, looking for something to entertain her. She’d been enjoying a pleasant afternoon with her housemates until subject matter had chased her away. The other Slytherins lost their play value the moment the conversation had turned from Muggle-baiting to the Dark Lord. Pansy does not particularly care for talk of the impending war the Dark Lord will bring, nor does she relish the thought of Hogwarts falling under his control the way the other Purebloods do. She’d been thoroughly enjoying the Muggle-baiting talk, and when the conversation had followed its natural course, she’d found the first opportunity to excuse herself and taken it. 

Pansy draws her warm woolen cloak tighter about her frame as she walks. The air is chilly, not yet truly cold, but Pansy has never been able to stand even moderately cold weather. Her fingers and toes begin to freeze even when it is temperate. She is constantly warming herself by the fire in the common room, and her bed in the dormitory is laden with winter blankets, even in the spring. Even so, she does not regret her decision to come outside. Pansy has always loved gloomy weather, when the skies are gray and lonely and choked up with clouds. 

She enters the Quidditch pitch and is surprised to find it empty. Her spirits dampen somewhat, though she mounts the stairs to the high bleachers and takes a seat near the top of the Slytherin stands anyway. She had hoped to see some - preferably fit - players practicing today, but it would seem the weather is too dreary. Pansy sniffs, opening her Charms book with shivering hands. Pity. 

Half a chapter in on nonverbal summoning charms and Pansy hears voices echoing out from one end of the pitch. She looks down and sees two figures exiting the locker rooms. Potter and Weasley, the female one, are chattering to one another as they mount their brooms. Pansy watches as they take a few practice laps. She cannot tell what they are talking about, but they don’t seem to notice her presence. She lowers her book, scowling slightly, though it is more out of thoughtfulness than animosity. 

Weasley has her hair bound in a plait that streams behind her as she picks up speed, whipping like a dragon’s tail in her wake. She’s been growing it out, evidently. Pansy has only seen her with it twisted up into a shoddy bun atop her head when she sees her in the hallway, so she hasn’t noticed the length before. She looks impressive, guiding her broom into turns and loops and one particularly nasty Wronski Feint that has Pansy biting her lip in spite of herself. She’d really believed Weasley had been about to crash, and evidently so had Potter, whom Pansy could hear cursing as she taunted him, practice Snitch in hand. 

Potter and Weasley begin lobbing a Quaffle to one another, and Pansy supposes it is easy to see why people would assume they are a couple. They work very well together, moving almost as two parts of one unit. At one point, Potter simply drops the Quaffle to the ground, but Weasley dives to catch it, not missing a beat. The way she’s laughing, Pansy supposes Potter pulls these tricks often. Weasley had been expecting it, then. She lobs it high into the air in return, and Potter rockets upward, managing to secure it before it begins its downward descent. 

Pansy cannot help but notice things about Ginevra. Like her hair, strands falling out of place from her activity. There are smaller pieces that frame her face in quite a lovely fashion, though Pansy supposes Ginevra will be wanting a pin before long. She’s not wearing Quidditch robes, either, which allows Pansy a fantastic view of her build. She is rather broad in the shoulders for a woman, with a slim, athletic waist. Strong thighs grip the handle of her broom, and Pansy feels her mouth go a bit dry. She cannot help but be a little jealous. Though she would be loathe to trade her hourglass and wide, feminine hips for anything else, a part of her wishes she were a bit thinner, shaped a bit more like Ginevra is. 

Potter’s feet touch ground, and he throws something up towards Ginevra. She catches it with quick reflex and begins fiddling with it as - Pansy squashes down her surprise and alarm - her broom gently glides towards the Slytherin stands. Ginevra is looking at her as she takes a drink from the bottle, curiosity sparkling in her bright brown eyes. “Good afternoon, Parkinson,” she says when she is close enough for a normal speaking voice. She and Potter had been shouting to one another, so her voice sounds a bit raw and husky from the use. Pansy feels something suspiciously like arousal clench her insides tight. 

“Weasley,” Pansy replies by way of greeting.

“Here to steal Gryffindor’s Quidditch secrets?” she teases, no real malice behind her words. 

Pansy huffs. “Here to steal a look at Gryffindor’s players, more like.”

Ginevra looks surprised for a moment before letting out a throaty laugh. Pleasure coils in Pansy’s belly at the delightful sound. “Look all you like, Parkinson.” Instead of leaving to rejoin Potter, though, she dismounts right there in the bleachers and sits in front of Pansy, cross-legged and unguarded. “You like Quidditch?” She takes a swig of the bottle, exposing the line of her throat.

Pansy is close enough to count the freckles on Ginevra’s face, and though she doesn’t have the time to (who would?), she is struck with the absurd thought that she’d like to. Presumably from spending so much time outdoors on the pitch, Ginevra is not pale like the rest of her family. Her skin is a delicious caramel color that nearly blends with aforementioned freckles. Her brown eyes are laughing and her lips are parted in a toothy grin, and Pansy realises she has not answered the question. “Not particularly.”

Ginevra laughs again, and Pansy fairly wants to die. She leans forward, still grinning, and says, “So what brings you out here to watch it on such an awful day? Is it like you said, hoping to score a look at some fit players?”

Pansy’s mind restarts, and for the first time since Ginevra sat down, she finds herself capable of giving an intelligent answer. “I don’t mind the weather, and my housemates were being such bores. Talking politics, of all things. Rubbish way to spend a perfectly good afternoon.”

Ginevra’s eyes trail over Pansy’s thick, woolen robes to her uncovered hands, which are pale and stiff. She reaches a hand out and grasps the fingers of Pansy’s left hand, frowning. “You look cold.”

Pansy’s jaw is slack. Ginevra’s hand is impossibly warm, considering all the flying she’s been doing. The warmth is almost painful, like running her hands under a hot tap. It feels like scalding her skin on her cauldron in potions class. It feels like touching fire. Pansy does not pull away. Ginevra does, though, after a heated moment of both women simply regarding the other, minds working separate thoughts. She reaches behind her and pulls a pair of Quidditch gloves out of her back pocket, rising to her feet as she does so. She offers the gloves to Pansy, who accepts them mostly because she’s too surprised to formulate a rejection. “It’s all I’ve got right now, I’m afraid, but they should help a little. You can give them back to me later.”

Ginevra is about to turn away when Pansy finds her voice. “Hang on,” she says, and Ginevra does. Pansy reaches up underneath the hood of her cloak and unfastens a hair pin. A few curls tumble into her face, but she tucks them quickly behind her ear before offering the pin to Ginevra. “Your hair’s in your face.”

“It’s always doing that,” Ginevra says, “I really don’t mind.”

“Consider it a trade, then, for your gloves.” If Pansy were still capable of embarrassment, she would blush. She is not, so she does not. She merely holds the pin out until Ginevra takes it. 

Ginevra is smiling with amusement and no small amount of bemusement, using one hand to twirl her loose strands of hair together and fastening them down with the pin in the other. “Thanks, Parkinson.”

Ginevra throws a wave and a backwards glance over her shoulder before mounting her broom and flying off to rejoin Potter, who has emerged from the locker rooms and is shouting for her. Her water bottle is still sitting on the bleacher she has just vacated. Pansy pulls Ginevra’s gloves on, finding they fit rather well and are indeed fairly warm. They are worn from use but well-made. The strong, leathery material still holds some of Ginevra’s body heat, and Pansy relishes the comfort, imagining it feels almost like holding Ginevra’s hand. She catches herself in her sentimentality but finds she cannot stop. 

X

Pansy sits in front of the fireplace, Draco’s head in her lap. She cards her hands through his silky blond hair, usually stiff with grease, but he’s just washed it. He is crying, has been for the past twenty minutes, and Pansy, not for the first time in her life, affirms silently that she would kill for this boy. 

She knows what’s under the sleeve of his sweater, can feel its presence even if he hadn’t told her where he’s been tonight. She feels awful for Draco, wishes she knew a way to tell him that without garnering his resentment. He didn’t want it, never wanted any of it. He wanted respect, wanted his father’s love, wanted him to be proud of his only son, but that was not the same thing as wanting to join the Death Eaters, not by a mile. But it had happened simply because Draco could find no other way to be loved or to be taken seriously. 

Pansy does not like the Dark Lord. She keeps this secret from everyone, even Draco. To divulge it would certainly mean punishment, perhaps even her death. Though she cannot imagine Draco ever betraying any of her secrets, the mark he’s just had etched into his skin like a death sentence is a wedge between them now. Draco is loyal to her, loves her, and though he has taken the Dark Lord’s mark, she suspects he did not do it for love of him. Rather, Draco will do anything to gain his father’s admiration, even signing himself over for a cause he does not believe in. She knows this, and so she does not give him a reason to suspect he might garner it by way of exposing her.

She is certain that, though Draco has been the first, he will not be the last in their house to take the Mark. She has noticed Crabbe becoming much more reticent as of late, and Pritchard no longer comes to visit her in her room with the others. Nott is failing more subjects than a Weasley. That’s to say nothing of Gregory Goyle, who only speaks anymore to ask for the homework. Pansy considers herself lucky that the Dark Lord is traditionalist in thinking and does not force the of-age women into taking the Mark. It is one of the few comforting thoughts she has regarding the war, that she will not be asked to kill for the Dark Lord’s cause. 

Draco looks at her, face and eyes red, and asks her what she thinks he should do. She looks at him for one heartbreakingly long moment, then transfers her attention to the wards she’s placed around them. Though the common room is empty except for them, she does not want anyone stumbling in and seeing Draco cry, hearing the pitiful noises he’s making through a throat constricted with grief and hopelessness. 

“I had to take the Mark, Pansy,” Draco is saying, voice crumbling like limestone, “Father has it. He wanted me to prove my loyalty, they both did.”

“I don’t know what you should do,” Pansy admits to him. 

“I have to try, don’t I? I have to try to kill his enemies. That’s what they want me to do.”

Pansy knows Draco is afraid for himself. She suspects he might not be the only person he is afraid for. 

“He wants me to-,” Draco takes a wet, shuddering breath, “He wants me to kill Dumbledore, Pansy. I can’t do that. Dumbledore is old, yes, and a fool, absolutely, but he’s, well, he’s him.”

“I know, Draco.”

“And Potter, he-,” 

Pansy shushes her friend as he positively wails, screaming against the unfairness of it all. They’re just children, even if they’re considered of-age by magical law. They are children. Draco should not be forced to think of killing, of murdering his headmaster or his rival or anyone else, for that matter. He should be thinking about his NEWTs. He should be worried about Quidditch tryouts. Draco Malfoy should be more anxious about kissing Potter than about killing him. He should be asking him to Hogsmeade, not to a duel. 

“Draco, you don’t have to kill Dumbledore, and you don’t have to kill Potter,” she says to him, an eerie stillness overcoming her features. She does not want to divulge her own politics, but she feels she must say something.

“Yes, I do,” Draco insists glumly, with defeated finality, “Father and the Dark Lord want me to. They’ll kill me if I don’t.”

“They can only kill you if they can catch you,” Pansy says.

Draco turns to look at her, removing his head from her lap. “Your words are treasonous.” 

“My beliefs come from my own sense of self-preservation, not from loyalty to any lords, Dark or otherwise.” Pansy whispers her words, knowing she’s saying too much but realizing that Draco needs to hear this, and he needs to hear this from her. “I will keep myself alive, Draco. That means aligning with whichever side seems more likely to produce that outcome. That means staying as neutral as I can until I am certain which side will win. I wish you would, too.”

“It’s easy for you to say that.” His gaze falls to his arm.

“I know, Draco, I know,” she tells him and means it, “But it won’t do you any good to wish you were me, though I know it’s nearly impossible to keep from doing so.”

Draco manages a chuckle, amused in spite of himself at Pansy’s words. 

“You took the Mark because you were there, in front of the Dark Lord and your father, and you needed to make the decision that kept you alive,” she says. Her hand snakes out and grabs Draco’s chin, bringing his eyes up to meet hers. “Continue to make decisions that will keep you alive.”

Draco stares fearfully into her eyes. “But Pansy, my father-,”

“Your father’s love will only serve you if you are alive,” Pansy interrupts, her grip tightening in warning, “If you must choose between pleasing him and staying alive, choose to live. Draco Malfoy, if you must choose between the Dark Lord’s favor and your own life, do not die for a man who will not protect you. I know I won’t.”

Draco falls silent, eyes wide and fearful, but he seems to be absorbing her words. She lets out a huff of breath, an anxious sigh that fails to alleviate the tension gripping her heart and squeezing hard enough to pop it. She casts her gaze around, knowing they are alone but still feeling terribly uneasy. Pansy knows she will always feel uneasy, they all will, always, be high-strung and on guard until the pot boils over and it will be time to choose sides or die. Pansy knows, when the time comes, she will choose to live, even if it means becoming a traitor to her family and friends. She will undoubtedly be considered a snake when she does so, but she will not mind. Gryffindors are the loyal ones, after all, the ones willing to die for their convictions. She can only hope that Draco, her dearest friend in the entire world, is more Slytherin than Gryffindor.


End file.
